Since There's No Place to Go
by DamselInDeduction
Summary: A terrible snowstorm strands Molly at 221B. (This piece is a remix of Red Weather Warning by Writingwife83. It was written for the 2016 Sherlolly Remix Challenge.)
Mycroft reviewed the report in his hand and sighed heavily. Glancing at the antique golden clock at the corner of his desk, he quickly calculated that he would indeed be able to make it home before the red weather warning was officially issued. Travel would soon be nearly impossible with the thick-falling snow and whiteout conditions expected to last through the early morning. Although the Diogenes club offered very luxurious amenities, Mycroft did not relish the idea of sleeping at his chair.

After a quick phone call was made to fetch his private car, Mycroft gathered a few files into his briefcase and considered Sherlock. Perhaps he should make his brother aware of the weather alert, as he knew Holmes the Younger couldn't possibly be bothered to check on something so mundane as the weather report. A snow storm this bad could leave him stranded at 221B and a bored Sherlock quickly became a troublesome, even dangerous Sherlock. Mycroft quickly typed a text message to his brother but his task was interrupted by a passing thought. He paused, thumb hovering over the send button as he considered it, and a slight smile began to curl his lip.

Mycroft quickly switched applications and pulled up the video surveillance on his brother's Baker Street flat. The feed on his smartphone didn't offer the audio that his laptop did, but he could see very clearly what Sherlock was up to. Mycroft's smile became a full-face grin.

"Experiments with your favorite goldfish, Sherlock? How perfectly domestic," murmured Mycroft through a smirk.

He switched back to the prepared text message. A few more mental time calculations, and his choice was made. Putting the phone away, he donned his coat and scarf and gingerly took up his umbrella. He swung the brolly around a few times, enjoying his moment of wicked glee. Oh, Sherlock would receive that message eventually, but it could wait a bit longer...

As his car pulled away from the Diogenes Club, a self-satisfied Mycroft sang quietly to himself,

 _Oh the weather outside is frightful,_

 _But the fire is so delightful_

 _And since there's no place to go_

 _Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow..._

/

"Sherlock, the snow is getting worse."

"Sherlock, I'm worried about getting a cab in this weather"

"Sherlock, I need to leave soon- well, now really. So if you don't need me- I mean, need anything else..."

Molly Hooper continued to stare at the silent detective hoping for any kind of response, but Sherlock only had eyes for the index finger currently dissolving in his Erlenmeyer flask. The pathologist sighed, and once again reviewed the notes he'd dictated, while occasionally sneaking glances at the weather outside. At this point there was really nothing to see; the view outside Baker Street was just a sea of white.

It was her own fault really. Molly had seen the weather forecast that morning before leaving for her shift at St. Bart's. She knew the refrigerator at 221B was low on body parts, as she had recently been over to collect and return bio-waste to the hospital (at a very angry landlady's request). Molly was certain that some fingers and toes would be welcomed by Sherlock (but certainly not Mrs. Hudson) and they would keep him from getting bored.

Sherlock had been slipping into his terrible old habits recently, first for the Magnussen case and then- well, his most recent relapse was terrifying. Molly hadn't known much about the Eastern European mission, and expected Sherlock back after his six-month exile. Her heart had broken for him when John told her that the exile was a suicide mission, and detailed the cocktail of drugs Sherlock had written down on that list. John was keeping a bit of distance from his best friend, focusing on his family, so Molly was determined to help Sherlock in any way she could. And tonight he had been so happy to see her- well, to see her bringing fingers- that when he asked for her assistance with some experiments, she found it impossible to say no.

And it had been a lovely evening helping Sherlock with his experiment, even if she'd been relegated to chief note-taker. Molly loved seeing his brilliance in action and being even a small part of his amazing work. Glancing over at that curly head, she sighed.

Sherlock was still staring at that damn flask. He hadn't moved even an inch.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Damn it, John, WHAT?!" The consulting detective roared, whipping around so fast Molly couldn't help but jump.

"I-I'm not John... and I'm leaving now." She lowered her eyes, as she turned away toward the coat rack. Molly refused to cry, not after all this time. She was a good friend to this man, and it hurt that he continued to ignore her. He'd literally forgotten she was there. Why did he always treat her this way, every time? And why did she allow it?

A hand at her wrist stopped her.

"Molly, I- apologize. That was- rude of me. I do appreciate your help." Sherlock realizing he was still holding her wrist, released her. His blue-green eyes met hers when she looked up in surprise.

"Oh, umm, alright. A-apology accepted." Molly made a decision and straightened up to her full height. "But in the future, Sherlock, I would ask that you be more considerate of me."

For a moment neither of them moved. Molly watched Sherlock as he seemed to process her statement, and then nodded curtly. He was taking a breath to speak when a text alert from sounded from his phone and broke the silence.

 **Keep your plans close to home tonight, Brother Mine... We've issued a Red Weather Warning. Blizzard conditions have made travel too dangerous and nobody is allowed on the roads- MH**

 **/**

This was all John Watson's fault.

Not the real John Watson, as the man was barely speaking to Sherlock right now.

Molly had brilliantly anticipated the need to keep his mind occupied and provided the fingers that the two of them had spent the night dissolving in different acids. Sherlock had been nervous about his interactions with Molly since his return; he could almost feel his face smarting where she had slapped him for previous indiscretions.

But true to her nature, Molly had been kind and supportive, particularly when she realized how fraught things were between Sherlock and John. She had checked in with the detective now and then to be sure he was eating and sleeping, and had offered her help with multiple experiments and research projects. It should have been irritating, but Sherlock found himself looking forward to their time together.

Molly had been nothing but lovely and Sherlock had called her John.

So an evening of experiments was a perfect way to spend time close to her and try and understand their new dynamic. But something was very- off.

Sherlock found himself hovering in her personal space without real reason to do so. Well, he had a reason, but wanting to know if Molly Hooper still wore the vaguely vanilla scented perfume he'd always liked wasn't a very good reason. He had very nearly touched her tonight without thinking; a lock of hair had freed itself from her pony tail and his hand was in the air to tuck it back into place before he realized what he was doing. She thankfully hadn't seen him.

He had grabbed the flask instead, staring at it while he shot into his mind palace to try and understand what had just occurred. He was hunting through memories in his basement-morgue of his Mind Palace when he heard the altogether-too-amused blogger's voice.

" _What's wrong, Sherlock?_ _Looking for something?"_ John was sitting on one of the autopsy tables, swinging his legs and grinning like a madman.

"What are you doing in Molly's room?"

"Why do you have a room for Molly?" John retorted.

Sherlock refused to answer and began opening drawers, reviewing memories of interactions with his pathologist. He listened to echos of her soft laughter, and then saw the look on her face when she asked him what he needed. He felt his chest unwind a bit, but it quickly seized again when he replayed that awful night of the Baker Street Christmas party. He closed that lower cabinet door with more force than necessary.

"Sherlock, you could just admit you care for her."

Sherlock slowly rose from his crouched position and looked at John. He spoke calmly, trying to make some logical sense from all of his internal upheaval.

"John, I can admit that I care about many people. But I care for you and Mrs. Hudson, and even Grant Lestrade. But that- caring- is very differently than the way I care for Molly. There are much stronger and more immediate physical responses tied to my- feelings- for her. I just don't-" He turned away abruptly and began to pace, a bit disgusted by his own stammering.

"Sherlock, were you about to admit you _don't know something_? Oh, it's fun to turn the tables on you. Because _I_ happen to understand what is happening here."

This had Sherlock's attention. He stopped in his tracks, then shook his head fiercely.

"No, you don't, John. Because you are a representation created by my mind, so whatever you know, I know."

John hopped off the table, laughing, "That's just the trouble, Sherlock. You _do_ know what's going on, you just don't want to admit it. You've pushed your emotions far away, and your feelings for Molly are changing. You're just falling in-"

"No, this is your fault! Molly is just- being kinder because my best friend holds terrific grudges and can't forgive me yet. She's all I have right now, and so- I'm – obviously projecting false emotions on our interactions. Offshoot of my addictive personality, I'm sure, she is simply fulfilling a need-" Sherlock paced even faster than before, when John cut him off.

"No-pe."

Sherlock was starting to see why people found that popped "p" annoying.

And then John mumbled something. Sherlock was trying to catch it, but felt himself being pulled from his mind palace by something external. He could see John's mouth moving, but couldn't hear him, and the bastard was still grinning like a prize idiot-

"Damn it, John, WHAT?!"

Definitely John Watson's fault.

/

"Molly, I'm afraid you can't leave."

Molly had just gotten her coat on and was wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck, when Sherlock spoke.

"What? What do you mean? Was there something else you needed, because the snow is-"

"Red weather warning. No travel. Here." Sherlock handed her his phone so she could see Mycroft's message for herself. She stared at the mobile for a while in a bit of shock and barely concealed worry. This night had taken an awkward turn, and now she couldn't even leave? She looked up to hand back the phone and realized Sherlock was gone.

She heard clanking sounds coming from the kitchen, and she followed them to find Sherlock clearing away some of the equipment. This man never cleaned up after an experiment if he could avoid it.

If Molly Hooper didn't know better, she'd think Sherlock was panicking.

She straightened up as she placed his mobile down on an unoccupied corner of the table. Of course he wasn't happy; he hadn't exactly planned on company and now he'd be stuck with her until morning. As much as Molly knew that she counted to Sherlock, she realized he would never reciprocate her feelings. They were friends, but there would always be a bit of distance required between them. Maybe she could just stay out of his way. John's room was probably still made up; she could disappear and hide up there until morning.

"I'm not upset that your here, Molly. If anything, you should be upset with me for not listening to your concerns earlier. But I shall endeavor to make the rest of the evening better." Sherlock wasn't looking at her, but Molly could tell he was really trying to be polite. It was very un-Sherlock behavior, but so was his apology earlier, now that she thought about it.

"Take John's chair. I'll make us tea."

/

A half an hour later found the pair sitting in front of a roaring fire, finally relaxing in each other's company.

"So if he hadn't used the word 'hound' you wouldn't have taken the case?"

"Probably not- he seemed extremely boring."

"Well, at least the case wasn't. I can only imagine what goes on in those Baskerville labs, I bet it's just fascinating! Top of the line equipment?"

"A proverbial candy store," Sherlock replied with a side grin. He found himself truly comfortable in her presence. Perhaps it was because she was actually interested in his work, and knowledgeable enough that she could hold a conversation that wasn't slowed down by explanations.

The evening was becoming- pleasant. Sherlock had a flashing thought of multiple evenings spent like this. Tea sitting in front of a fire, discussing cases, experiments, interesting autopsies. Large brown eyes, and a soft, gentle smile...

"This is nice, Sherlock. You know, you can be good company when you care to be."

She was teasing him. Did he like teasing? Did this mean she was comfortable around him? He wanted her comfortable, he realized. He wanted her- here.

"Molly, do you-"

At that moment, the lights in the flat went out.

The lights had already been low, the well-stoked fire providing most of the room's illumination. But the quiet humming of large appliances sighed away until all the two could hear were the blizzard winds outside and the crackling of the fireplace. It was an eerie kind of quiet.

"Stay here." Sherlock headed further into the flat, gathering all the bedding he could find, depositing it at Molly's feet. She looked at the pillows and blankets, confused, and looked up in time to see Sherlock return again with a pile of clothing.

"Sherlock?"

"Power loss means no heat in the flat. We'll have to sleep here close to the fire if we want to stay warm tonight. Here," he said, handing her a handful of clothes including a heavyweight maroon dressing gown. "Put these over your clothes. They should keep you sufficiently warm."

He watched Molly's eyes grow wide as she looked from the clothing to the fireplace and then his general direction, although refusing to make eye contact. She swallowed hard.

 _Oh, you fool_ , thought Sherlock. _You've made her uneasy._ _She might not- she doesn't want to-_

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I meant you, Molly. **You** will sleep close to the fire, I will be here in my chair."

That made her straighten in her seat, and the pair locked eyes.

"No, Sherlock, this is your home! You'll be freezing that far from the fire. It's fine, there's room for both of us—at least- well, we'll make room for both of us."

"Nonsense. The body is only transport. I'll be quite well here." He proceeded to pull a thick wool blanket from the pile and wrapped himself up in his chair.

After pulling the oversized clothing, Molly began to make a little nest for herself before the fireplace. She sat herself down with blankets in hand but looked worriedly over at her host.

"Are you-"

"I'm sure, Molly."

She sighed and lay down with her face toward the fire, covering herself with the blankets. Sherlock kept watch over his pathologist as he tried to review all the details of their odd little evening together. But he couldn't seem to focus on anything but Molly herself.

He watched her breathing, nervous at first, finally slow down and become even. She had a quiet snore that made a corner of his mouth quirk up before he could stop himself. Sherlock didn't know if he'd spent minutes or hours watching her sleep, when he realized Molly was shivering a bit. The fire was burning down and she was getting cold.

Sherlock leaped quietly from his chair and headed to the coat rack. Belstaff in hand, he returned to Molly and hesitated before gently laying the coat over her petite form. Before he could pull away, large brown eyes opened and met his. He froze.

"You looked cold."

"Thank you," she whispered as she touched his hand, still gripping his coat.

"Sherlock, your hands are so cold, you must be freezing!" She was awake now, and sat up with a jolt.

"I'm fine."

"No Sherlock, you're not fine. Add wood to the fire, and I'll make some room for you. No arguments."

Not wanting to upset her further, Sherlock added another two logs to the fire before pulling the blanket from his chair. He knew logically that the best scenario for warmth would be to share body heat under the pile of blankets, but he wasn't sure if Molly would want him- that.

Did he want that?

Oh, God, yes. At that moment, he was absolutely sure that he wanted to gather her into his arms and keep her safe and warm. To lay his head in the curve between her neck and shoulder...

Oh. This is what John was talking about. This is why that lock of her hair was taunting him earlier. He wanted to touch her, hold her, protect her- even from himself.

"Sherlock, I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, but we'll stay warmer if we share the blankets. I'll sleep better knowing you're not cold and alone."

 _And I don't want to be alone._

The great detective was certainly frozen, but not from the cold. He'd been offered exactly what he wanted, quite literally fantasized about just a moment ago- and it terrified him. There was something in her wording too. Sherlock had believed for so long that alone protected him but perhaps he didn't have to be alone. Tonight he could be physically close to someone- to Molly. And he couldn't be sure he'd ever get that chance again.

Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock nodded and lowered himself to the floor behind Molly. She pulled the blankets up, giving him room to slide in next to her. He left a bit of room between them, not sure how close she wanted him, and not sure he trusted himself any nearer. Being so much taller than Molly, he was able to curve himself around her a bit, hopefully shielding her petite body from the cold of the flat, while both of them gazed at the fire.

There was silence between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy and poignant.

"Are you warmer now?" Molly whispered.

"Yes."

"Good."

/

"I've always loved watching a fire. They're mesmerizing. Calming." Molly said a few minutes later, keeping her voice at a whisper. She could feel Sherlock behind her, close enough to share warmth, but not touching her. And God, she longed for him to touch her in some way.

It was a sweet torture to be wrapped up in clothes that smelled like him, and she hoped he hadn't noticed her running her fingers over a corner of his coat. To be warm, surrounded by his scent but not quite next to him- the inches between them might as well have been miles.

"Capable of such destruction, but yes, very captivating." Sherlock responded so low and quiet that she simply could not repress the shiver that ran through her.

"Are you cold, Molly?"

Molly took a very deep breath, and contemplated her answer for a moment. If he rejected her now, she wasn't sure how she'd survive the rest of the night, but this might be her only chance to lay in the arms of the man she'd loved for a very long time. She was gambling with her heart, but had to know for certain.

With eyes still on the flames of the fire, Molly spoke, ignoring Sherlock's question.

"Sherlock, would you hold me. Please." She closed her eyes, bracing herself for rejection.

There was a beat of silence, and she heard Sherlock move behind her. Convinced he was returning to his chair, her eyes began to tear up. Until she felt the tentative slide of large hands on her waist. Her eyes shot open, but she didn't dare look at him.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around her and she felt him nuzzle her hair as he fitted himself behind her.

"Is this ok, Molly? Are you comfortable?"

She almost didn't trust her voice, and her tears that had anticipated rejection quickly became tears of joy and relief.

"Yes."

"Good."

Moments passed by, the silence now blissful and warm, but neither took their eyes from the fire. It was somehow easier to find their words now.

"I'm comfortable too, Molly."

Nothing else was said that night. The crackling of the fire, and the wind howling outside the flat were the only sounds heard as the pair drifted off into a warm, peaceful sleep.

/

The brightly-colored basket sitting on the front steps of 221 Baker Street was impossible to miss. It was a startling constrast to the white snow on the ground, and the huge yellow bow on the handle waved in the wind like a flag.

As Mrs. Hudson brought the gift in from outside, she peeked through the cellophane and found a large assortment of scones, biscuits, and fruit. After checking the card, she gasped, then giggled to herself and lugged the basket up the stairs to 221B as carefully as her hip allowed.

She quietly opened the door and pushed the basket through, making certain that her tenant would be able to clearly read the card, before heading back down to put extra water in the kettle for tea.

The card would remain unread by the couple for nearly another hour.

 _ **It is common courtesy to offer breakfast to overnight guests, Brother Mine.**_

 _ **Dr. Hooper should not be forced to suffer hunger simply because you survive on nicotine and biscuits. Perhaps one day you will learn to use your refrigerator for its intended purpose as opposed to bio-hazard containment.**_

 _ **Mummy will like her, Sherlock. I'll be sure to pass on your regards.**_

 _ **-MH**_


End file.
